


Puppy Love

by Birdgirl90



Series: Selfcerts: For Her [3]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Bloody Kisses, Female self insert - Freeform, Fluff, Other, POV Second Person, Young Adamska, mentions of a fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdgirl90/pseuds/Birdgirl90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which you spend time with a young major, bandaging him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppy Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lovelies!  
> Here we have a break from smut in favor of a little bit of fluff.  
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> ~Birdie

He’s always been a little impulsive. At least, when he isn’t being shy. Adamska, the young Russian major of a unit of men, so young and so vulnerable, yet so headstrong and so ruthless. It’s a delicate contradiction, and one you’ve loved as long as you’ve known him. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you tell him as he sits before you. Blood drips from a bruised nose, a welt on his cheek from where the other man’s fist hit the bone with a crack.

He grins, boyish and impish and everything you adore. Adamska’s blonde hair, free from his red beret, feels fuzzy and soft beneath your fingers as you tilt his head forward, dabbing a tissue against his bleeding face.

“It was worth it,” he tells you in that thick accent of his. “No one gets to insult my woman.”

You giggle a little, the flush on your cheeks growing. You can’t lie - the feeling of being fought for, fought over, thrills you. Especially since the other man got away worse for wear. Adamska may posses long limbs and a gangly gait like a puppy who never grew into his paws, but he’s war trained and knows how to utilize his litheness for stealth and his fists when he needs to.

“Well,” you tell him with a grin, moving the tissue from his long - somehow still straight - nose, “as much as I like a knight in red armor, you probably should pick and choose your battles.”

He snorts, and the impish grin remains. “Russians don’t need to pick and choose,” he says with a laugh. “We take everyone.”

The pride he carries of his life so far makes his chest swell, and you just shake your head. Today he’s full of vodka and adrenaline; tomorrow he’ll be vulnerable and in need of holding, crooning, soft voices and touches. You know Adamska’s life so far hasn’t been the most peaceful, and these shifts are what you expect. 

It makes you love him more.

The warmth carries through your, the kind of warmth you can’t get from whiskey or cigarettes but the kind that comes with butterflies and sunny days under a tree. The kind of warmth that only blooms for him, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

His face grows a little serious and you watch those grey eyes of his as he watches you. You watch the way the humor shifts, the way they soften and then fill again with a slow burning flame of desire. Adamska leans down, his frame always so much larger than yours, tall and lanky, limbs that never quite know where to go, torso like a willow tree. There’s blood trailing from disproportionate nose to full shy lip. He lifts one of his puppy paw hands, long nimble fingers that haven’t mastered grace beyond twirling his beloved guns, and tucks them under your chin, draws you up to him.

The lips that meet yours taste like copper and alcohol and Russian winters in front of a fireplace. He’s soft like blanket and hard like security, the angles of his perfect face and the feathers of his hair under your fingertips, his loathing of war yet desire to battle for his heart in a bar, a Russian by birth but a cowboy in his heart; he’s yin and yang, fire and water, everything and nothing, and it drives you to the brink sometimes.

Tongues meet, explore, and there’s a faint taste of peppermint in with the metallic warmth spreading through your mouth. His nose is bleeding again, and you really should stop, but the whimper from him of pleasure and pain just fuels you further. His hands cradle your face, nearly covering from your widow’s peak to your chin, fingers musical against your skin. At last he pulls back, and you realize there’s blood on your lips, you taste it on your teeth as you run your tongue over them, grinning.

The boyish man in front of you grins back, the red across his face accenting the high cheekbones, mingling with the breathless flush.

“Perhaps,” he suggests with devilish, cat like grin that makes your heart race, “we should finish this elsewhere?”

“You’re on, cowboy,” you laugh. You hand him another tissue as you both stand up, you not even coming quite to his shoulder. “Here, don’t get blood on my floor.”

You’re rewarded with a nearly childish laugh. The warmth blooms again as he wraps one arm around you, nearly swallowing you as you walk, and you know this must be what they mean when they say it’s only “puppy love” as you let yourself lean into the paws he’s still growing into. 

You don’t want it any other way.


End file.
